


Made to Wait

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Vicious/Delicious: Johnstrade BDSM Stories [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Belts, Biting, Bondage, But it's really oblique and like five layers deep in the conversation, Butt Plugs, Caning, Cock Rings, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Greg Lestrade is a sex beast, Hurt/Comfort, I think they're in love, John has pierced nipples, Johnstrade, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Original Character(s), No Safeword, Orgasm Delay, Pinching, Punishment, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Swing, punishment for the fun of it, sub!John gets passed around a bit, tags all out of order now but I'm trying to be thorough, that's nothing new of course, which is how I like it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 06:25:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8193631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: Unexpectedly, John felt a piercing sting at the side of his neck as Greg pinched him with finger and thumb, and he muttered, “You’re going to keep quiet, and behave.” The last came out sounding ominous: “. . .And wait.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [voxangelus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxangelus/gifts).



> Well this went bananas on me. This started life as a tumblr ficlet prompted by an ask from foxy-voxy:
> 
> "Greg tying John down and rimming him 'til he's crying and babbling incoherently, begging for something more? Maybe follow that up with slow, deep fucking as he whispers what a /good/ boy John is, so good for Greg? Something like that?"
> 
> Something like that, indeed. This turned into a big'n, and there will be a sequel. Good gravy, y'all. These two have just turned out to have such an interesting dynamic; I'm learning a lot from writing these. (also, Dom!Greg and sub!John are scorching hot)
> 
> *

As Greg steps around to fix John’s other wrist in place, he slips his fingers through John’s hair, slides them down the back of his neck, then around to his jaw. Greg catches his chin and lifts it; John keeps his eyes cast down and in truth can barely keep them open, barely wants to.

“Long night, pet, I know,” Greg says, but it does not sound sympathetic, nor is it followed with any praise.

Through the leather cuff’s metal ring Greg slides a strap anchored to the floor, and pulls it tight. John is suspended, belly-down in a sling that tilts as it cradles his torso—head and shoulders down, arse up, not a steep angle, just enough to keep him off-kilter, focused on the space his body occupies, with a thrill of danger that he could fall, that he is helpless—and only the balls of his feet and his toes (gripping, splaying, trying to dig in) touch the floor, just enough to prevent fatigue in his legs, not nearly enough to steady him. As if to reinforce all of this, Greg nudges John’s side as he circles around, and John swings free, losing contact with the floor until the sling resettles. His wrists in their cuffs are tethered to the floor, shoulders’-width apart, but he cannot touch it, nor reach his own face to wipe away sweat or tears.

 

Greg’s membership at the club is long-standing; he’d traded skills-building sessions with the Domme who owns the place for his own labour, and on a number of previous visits had pointed out to John metal eyes he’d screwed into floors and ceilings; an enormous X-shaped wooden cross he’d helped erect; a plaque in the posh little lobby which names “G-Man” a lifetime member, _with gratitude, whips and kisses, Queen Kristina_. Tonight he’d collared John in the carpark, dragged him along with two fingers tucked into the leather, left him standing dumb and ignored while he chatted with the woman at the desk and got the room key. John had been impatient all day—for many days, actually—feeling edgy and snappish, lost and fretful, wanting to be put under Greg’s thumb. Once Greg had fastened the three-tone brown leather collar with its central goldtone o-ring around John’s neck, Greg seemed to all but put John on ignore.

Inside the room, Greg hung his leather jacket on a wall peg just inside the door, and started to roll back his shirt sleeves. “Get undressed,” he said, and John’s first thought was to remind Greg he’d left the door open, and his second was to recognise Greg had done so purposely. John undressed. He quick-folded his clothes and set them on a table beneath the coat pegs, stood by and waited. The gentle press of his collar around his throat when he moved or (especially) swallowed reminded him who he was, and why. He felt the downward pull, like a strong ocean wave dragging over him—down his face, neck, chest, the length of his legs—but his instinct not to drown asserted itself, and he stayed buoyant. Treading water. Waiting.

Greg circled him, scanning every surface of his body, making assessments. He fitted his fingertips and thumb onto the faded violet bruises he’d left on John’s bicep, but when he dug in, the dull distant echo of nothing-like-enough pain was a disappointment. It had been a long time; those bruises were at least two weeks old. John had been hinting, asking, practically begging, and then—getting no satisfactory response from Greg—short-tempered and sarcastic. Greg ignored all of it. Meantime John felt like he might fly apart if he didn’t find some way to contain himself. Greg was the best way he’d found, but Greg had recently seemed unreceptive to John’s suggestions that Greg should take him in hand. But out there, in real life, collarless, Greg’s— _what?_ —boyfriend, lover, whatever, they’d never named it—John didn’t, would never, beg. So instead he got tetchy and hair-triggered, and waited for Greg to give over.

Greg reached into the back pocket of his jeans and then his strong fingers were manhandling John’s prick and bollocks, snapping a simple leather ring around the base of his cock, harnessing his bollocks with a vertical strap between, pulling gently up toward John’s body. Once the snaps were shut, Greg ducked his head to inspect his work. The lights in the room were blaring overhead and John cast a glance toward the open door, and listened; the rooms were all soundproofed, but anyone in the corridor and common areas would be audible. John felt exposed and his face flushed hot. An open door was an invitation: come watch, come listen. Touch. Comment.

Greg’s hands lingered, fondling John’s bollocks, curling back to give his perineum a few rhythmic presses, fingertips dragging down his length, nudging his foreskin, pinching and petting. Greg leaned close and rolled his wet tonguetip around John’s cockhead a few times, making him hard, making him gasp, and John grabbed Greg’s shoulders for balance. He brought John only partway along and withdrew, tapping a tablet computer affixed to one wall to wake it, then scrolling and tapping to find what he wanted. John, a scribbled tangle, standing naked and half-hard six feet from an open door in bright overhead light, longed to be captured and contained.

He cleared his throat and ventured, “So may I speak?”

Greg sank into an overstuffed armchair draped with a thick slipcover of black brocade fabric and gave him a look that dared John to do so.

“Please tie me?” John asked quietly, not looking him in the eye, letting his hands drift together at the wrists in front of his sweetly aching, efficiently bound prick.

Greg looked thoughtful, glanced at the screen on the wall, by then playing the barely-scripted and poorly-acted opening scene of a porn movie: boxers in a locker room presumably having just fought, one with fake blood at the corner of his lip and on his eyebrow. John’s glance drifted to a stack of ropes and straps coiled around a stake in one corner, could pick out just the one he wanted, knew how it would feel wound around him so his biceps were tight at his sides, wrists affixed by a serpentine eternity of soft white rope. Without another word, Greg went into the small bag he’d brought from his flat, and fished out John’s cuffs. He was all business as he settled them on John’s wrists. He unbuckled his jeans’ belt and slithered it free from its loops, then fed it through the rings on the cuffs and draped it into a serviceable knot. Nowhere near enough, but John felt the pulling downward drag once more as Greg worked, and he let himself sink along with it. Then up again, but not all the way to the surface.

Greg lead him by the tail of the belt, not far, just beside the armchair; on the floor beside it was a large square cushion like a dog’s bed. A heavy hand on John’s shoulder showed him where he was meant to be. “Don’t kneel,” Greg said, just that, but the tone conveyed his meaning: _I won’t make you strain because you are going to be there a while_. John knelt at first, then slid his backside down to the cushion and let his bent legs rest beside him. He leaned his good shoulder lightly against the arm of the chair. John could feel the weight of Greg’s appraising stare, and shifted his shoulders back to push his chest forward, showing Greg his always-hard nipples, tonight decorated with small, goldtone barbells that Greg had screwed tight to keep John tingling. Looming there before him, feet in heavy black boots planted below his shoulders, Greg unfastened the column of buttons on his jeans and reached in to scoop out his own gorgeous cock and his heavy bollocks, dark pink and weighted to his left, all framed by his dark-haired thighs and John caught of whiff of him and felt at once aroused and subdued. The smell of a man. His man. John wet his lips, just in case Greg might want them.

Unexpectedly, John felt a piercing sting at the side of his neck as Greg pinched him with finger and thumb, and he muttered, “You’re going to keep quiet, and behave.” The last came out sounding ominous: “. . .And _wait_.”

With that, Greg settled himself into the chair, thighs apart, slouching, and as if John were not even there, he fixed his eyes on the porn movie playing a few yards away. After spitting into and licking his palm, Greg began firmly—slowly, with relish—to stroke his own cock.

 

John lets his head hang; he is so tired, so tortured, it’s hideous and wonderful and he feels high on it. But at the slight angle, his blood starts to rush downward, and his ears hum gradually louder, his eyes feel buggy and the edge of his vision goes fuzzy and green. He lifts his chin. He is sore and stinging all over—he is delighted to think he will be marked for days and days to come, red-violet reminders that he is owned—Greg has been pinching and biting him all over, and it seems like a mild punishment but his fingernails are just long enough, sharp-edged, and he uses them. When his teeth close around the meat of John’s tricep, inner thigh, or pectoral muscle, they are no love bites. More than once, John screamed.

John’s mouth is dry and stale. His cock is still bound and aching; he has been brought to the brink again and again, but repeatedly denied the hot relief of orgasm. Greg started the night with John at his knee, brought himself off and wiped spunk off the back of his hand onto John’s chest, but otherwise ignored him. Any shift in John’s posture—rearranging legs beginning to tingle from poor circulation, or a squirmy attempt to relieve the ache in prick and bollocks—rated only a growled, “Settle down, you.” And vocalised whimpers John allowed to escape earned an ominous, “That’s one. . .there’s two. . .” After his fifth outburst, enumerated in a heavy, disappointed tone of voice, John tried harder to keep quiet.

Now Greg goes into his duffle and in a moment he is standing in front of John with upturned palms. John whines a protest even as Greg commands, “Choose.”

John shakes his head; his eyes prickle and he blinks hard.

Without pity, Greg repeats—he hates being made to give an order twice—this time more forcefully, “Choose.”

John wants neither. He wants to shake his head again. His throat is thick with a threatening sob.

He chooses the cane.

It is rawhide, two feet long, and it curves and flicks with the momentum of every swing, leaving long streaks of red wherever it lands. John knows he will be screaming again before long, but the alternative was the thick, wooden paddle that reminds him of the hairbrush his mother used to beat him with, and the thought of how it would knock him off his barely-grounded feet with every stroke is more than he can take. Even the hot, licking agony of the cane curling its tongue against him is preferable to the prospect of uncontrolled weightlessness.

Greg stands beside him with one hand cupping John’s shoulder to keep him still and steady.

“How many?” Greg demands, and John panics at the thought he is being asked to come up with a number. Choosing the instrument of his suffering is difficult enough. He gulps, swallowing made harder by his head-down posture and his raised chin. Then he remembers Greg counting all his needy, greedy noises, and realises far too late that he should have tried much harder, especially early in the evening before he’d sunk all the way under, to keep himself in check. Greg is waiting for his answer, and John scrambles to blurt the response before Greg asks a second time; surely John would be punished for making Greg repeat himself.

“Eleven.” His eyes well up and spill. “Please. . .” His voice cracks around it; this time, he is pleading to be spared, when usually he would plead to be beaten. Greg will hear the difference and he will not like it.

The cane comes flicking down again and again, and it may be random or carefully arranged, criss-crossed or overlapping, but John couldn’t say, doesn’t know, because it hurts, _it hurts_ , it’s too much, he’s too strong, he hits so hard, so hard, _too_ hard, and John is weeping, he is sobbing, ow, oww, _ooowwww_. . .

Greg says nothing, lays the cane on the floor by John’s feet, and fetches a little stool he sets behind John and sits, knees wide apart, feet planted to steady himself. His hands slide over John’s stinging backside, the welts sparking and flaring beneath his fingers, and John lets out a humiliatingly broken sound, tastes snot on his upper lip, eyes burning with tears that drip off his lashes. He waits for Greg to move his hands away—even his caresses are an agony, his skin like sandpaper against the tracks striping John’s buttocks—but he does not move them away. He only flattens his palms against each side of John’s arse, and slides the tips of his thumbs between, up and down, over his hole, then pulls outward, and Greg’s tongue slides over him—so wet, warm and then cool as he moves.  .  .up. . .then up again. . .and John’s partially softened cock responds in a rush of blood that brings another brand of pain—that electric ache of his tied-off erection. Greg is kissing his hole, licking, sucking, all heat and damp and humming, huffing. He presses his thumbs against it, not inside, not yet, and John’s thighs begin to quiver.

His head has sunk forward again and he feels stupid, lightheaded, and he wants Greg to know what he is feeling, wants him to know John is his, wants to _be_ his. Greg’s hands on his whipped backside shift and dig in, and John lets out a sharp, “Oh!” and as Greg’s tongue licks serpentine patterns over him, John lifts his chin to avert the headrush and thinks— or, says—no, only thinks—or does he?— _says_ , “You hurt me so good. So good. Am I good for you? I want to be good. I try. I try. I try to be good, oh you’re so good, so strong, so good, am I good for you?”

Greg hums in the affirmative, though it’s unclear if he is responding to John’s blather or only enjoying himself. Lapping quickly, tickling, and John wants to push back against his mouth and pull away from his grasping hands, both at once, but the most he can manage is a pointless upward strain against the cuffs, and a shivering rearrangement of his toes against the floor. Greg spits, and the tips of his thumbs meet and begin to push. John groans; the forward motion of Greg’s thumbs and the swipes of his tongue are relentless, so sweet, but John is so tired and hurts all over, because of him. Because of him.

Because of him, John is weeping with pain, weeping at the pleasure, he is given over, he is surrendered, he is safe in his own skin, safe even with danger all around, a hovering threat of bruises, of beatings, and being made to wait. Greg’s thumbs begin to curl and smooth, sending shocks through John’s pelvis, his body wanting to refuse, and Greg goes on licking, kissing, in no hurry, he has told John he discovers his own power-over in giving pleasure as much as in giving pain, and John is by-god _rampant_ with pleasure, still aware of every pinprick bruise, every circle made by gnashing teeth, and every angry red stripe across his arse, and even still he is floating in the wash of sensation as his man licks and fingers him open, promises of more pleasure to come.

“I wanna come, make me come, please, please. . .”

Greg’s thumbs are circling now, making space, and he lifts his mouth away to answer John’s plea with one cruel word:

“ _Wait_.”

A stranger’s voice lets go a sort of aroused, approving hum and John is reminded of the open door. Instead of the hot flush of humiliation, though, he finds he wants to please Greg all the more, wants to be well-behaved and appropriately grateful. He lifts his chin, lowers his gaze to indicate his submission, is aware of his collar, his cuffs, the cane by his feet and his well-whipped backside a screaming reminder of how strong Greg is, how stern, how powerful a man to own another man the way he owns John. If only his cock were not bound up in the leatherette straps, John knows he would come, from Greg’s fingers—now fucking him slow, knuckles curled, wrist twisting as they slide in and drag out—and the hot tongue still wending wet trails all around, and from the thrill he feels at having given himself up to a man like Greg, who lets him put up a fight when he needs to, but who will always win in the end, to settle and subdue him, push him out to all his edges, then gather him back.

 

John wriggled impatiently, wrists fixed together with Greg’s belt but wanting to be bound tighter, wanting to struggle and squirm until all the fight had gone out of him and at last he could let it all go, let Greg take what he wanted, let him hollow John out. Greg went on all but ignoring him until a man appeared in the doorway, in a clinging sleeveless vest, heavy khaki trousers like the ones John had worn in the field, and thudding, highly-polished boots. Behind him, on a narrow leather lead, came another, younger man crawling, wearing a silky chemise too short to cover his arse. John, too, was on his knees, on the cushion though it didn’t help much. Greg exchanged familiar, friendly greetings with the other man, offered him a smoke even as he jerked John’s bound wrists up and over his head, settling them behind his neck. John knew he was being presented for viewing, and so adjusted his posture to best display himself. His cock jumped even as his face flushed. He kept his eyes down, watching their two pairs of boots. The man in the silk slip settled up against the side of his Dom’s leg, got his head petted kindly in response. He looked smug.

As they smoked, Greg and the other Dom talked about John and his cohort as if they couldn’t hear, or didn’t matter, because of course they didn’t matter. At least, John didn’t. He never got petted; he got bitten. Pinched. Paddled. Slapped.

Greg’s way was better. John lifted his chest.

“Been a while since I saw you; you don’t come to the parties anymore?” the other Dom was asking, and John sipped the cigarette-smoke aroma in the room—another reminder of who he belonged to.

“I might. Next one, maybe. We’re still sorting ourselves.”

“Sure. Sure. Takes time. How long have you—?”

“Got together about a year ago, so. . .eight months? Nine?

 It was eight and a half. John thought of the first time Greg wrestled him into restraints, cursed him, slapped his face with a heavy thud that rattled John’s teeth, and the memory sent a shiver though him that made his nipples tighten against the already snug barbells.

“Share?”

There was a pause, Greg talking in a voice too low for John to hear, and an affirmative sound from the other man. In his peripheral vision, John saw the Dom’s hand move to his boy’s collar, releasing him from the lead.

“Go ahead, you pretty cocksucker. Look at that big prick. I want to see it go down your throat. G’wan.”

John wanted to moan out his distress but bit his lips instead. The young sub crawled to John, and with no preamble, took John’s half-hard cock in the ring of fingers and thumb, and began a delicate, sensuous suckjob with nibbles and quick sucks and hesitant licks, taking his time bringing John to full hardness, making high, soft sounds of pleasure, sighing, stroking with lips and tongue, humming contentment. John did not always like to be shared, but it was another potent reminder that he was Greg’s toy, and reminders like those never failed to thrill him. The man had obvious talent, quite gentle at first but growing increasingly enthusiastic. John’s prick ached, and he tried to push away troubling thoughts of coming in the man’s mouth, then getting whipped for his sluttishness. He was well beyond aroused, but John knew well that the tight cockring—and Greg—would deny him his release for as long as it pleased Greg to do so. As the man started to suck his cockhead more earnestly, nudging down, drawing back, each time taking John a little deeper, John’s breath came in gusts and his hips rolled a bit, wanting to fuck the gentle, willing mouth.

The other Dom was cooing at his partner. “You look so pretty, baby. I’m so pleased. Naughty little slut, you love sucking all the mens’ cocks, don’t you?”

A pause while they finished their cigarettes, and John was edging up to the precipice, his chest collapsing forward, his head dropping, straining not to thrust up too hard into the man’s mouth, his open throat, he must behave but jeezus he was close, and maybe, maybe. . .

“What do you call him?”

“Just,” Greg said, “different things. We haven’t really settled on anything.”

John was torn between wanting to listen to the conversation—about him as if he were an object in Greg’s pocket, and not. . .whatever it was they hadn’t labeled yet—but the young man’s fingers were all over and around his bollocks, so appreciative, slipping under the straps, and maybe, just maybe, _god please_ , the snap might come loose, _fuck_.

“What do you think it might be?”

“Dunno. It’ll happen. Or it won’t. But I don’t want to hear a bunch of play-acted _Yes sir, Yes Daddy_ , if they don’t mean it, you know? I’d rather just my name than some _Let’s play S & M_ bullshit.”

The other Dom chuckled. “You’re a hard man, G.”

John wished his hard man would come finish him off just then—let John suck him, come on John’s face—this boy was a wonder, but a gorgeous blowjob with no hope of release was sheer torture. Just as John was about to screw up the courage to beg Greg’s permission to let him come, Greg barked, “Stop!” and the other Dom echoed it, more kindly, and the sub stopped at once, crawled back to his Dom and got a deep, sweet kiss for his efforts. John got hauled up to his feet, grabbed from behind with two hands like vices around his upper arms, and those straight, white teeth sank into the meat of his shoulder, the back of his neck, vicious, grinding, as if Greg would chew through to his bones. John let out a shout, and then a shriek.

 

Knowing someone has paused at their open door to watch, John holds himself as still and steady—as surrendered and submissive—as he can, even as Greg works him open with sweeps of wet tongue and his blunt, probing fingers. His saliva is soaking but not slippery, and John feels abraded by  every callus, hangnail, and knuckle, but now and then Greg withdraws his fingers and shoves in his tongue, lips and the threatening edges of teeth close against John’s singing skin. A hard, swirling press of Greg’s tongue makes him yelp, and then groan, and his chin dips. He is sweating and every bruise pinched onto his skin is aglow, his body a constellation of brightly painful pinpricks. Greg licks long, quick stripes up the cleft of his arse and pushes his thumbs into John’s body once more; John shivers and cannot stop.

“Greedy little slut,” Greg scolds, and the wind of his breath stirs the wispy hairs on the skin of John’s low back. “Wide open for a good fucking.”

John’s breath catches and breaks and he sobs out, “Yeah. _Please_.”

Greg’s open, sucking mouth lands on him then, his tongue circling the softened edges, and John is at the breaking point, has been aching to come for hours, has been made to wait, and wait, and wait.

“What’ve I told you all night?” Greg demands, and the only contact between them is one of his palms gripping John’s whipped arse-cheek, and one thumb working a half-moon inside him.

John does not want to say the word, has come to hate it, fears saying it will make it real. . .

Greg smacks him on the back of the thigh with his free hand and John gusts out, “ _Wait!_ ”

“That’s right,” Greg says, not gently, and withdraws, nudges the little stool away—John can hear it scrape across the floor—and strides around him, bends to unfasten the straps from John’s cuffs then grips him by the hair at the front of his head and wrenches his neck back. “Look here,” he demands, and John hesitates but manages to meet his gaze. The set of his jaw is taut and his eyes flash cruelty; John’s cock surges. His man is a beast. “You’re getting a lesson in patience, aren’t you?”

John nods, and his hands reach for Greg, trying to find a new balance point now that his arms are free. Greg swats him away with his free hand, gives his head a vicious shake by the fistful of hair in his grip.

“ _Aren’t you?_ ” he growls, teeth gritted, and a thrill of fear jolts down John’s spine, then back up, settling in the back of his neck.

“Yes,” John says, and he wants to say more—it’s right there behind his teeth—but he bites it back.

“Get on the floor,” Greg orders, and releases his hair so suddenly John’s head plummets down and threatens to overbalance him right out of the sling, face-first onto floor. He scrambles to steady himself, awakening fresh agony in every mark on his body; he feels liquefied and uncoordinated as he grips straps for leverage and eventually manages to free himself. Greg is leaning over the duffel again, rummaging. He barks, “Bow down to me, slut,” and John manages only a weak-kneed half-step away from the swing before he collapses to his knees, then with his hands clasped together above his head—a symbolic restraint—presses his forehead to the floor. It is the easiest thing in the world, praying to Greg for mercy; it makes perfect sense.

Greg is on the move again, walks an unhurried half-circle around him. A sound smack on John’s arse with his beautifully cruel, perfectly firm hand and a gruff, “Up,” and John raises his hips, breath rising to a thick pant, prick straining and aching exquisitely in its straps, wanting Greg to take him, have him—hard, _mean_ , any way Greg wants him—John’s his for the taking, John’s his, only his.

Greg kneels behind him then, at last, and John’s eyes fill with tears, his chest fills with relief, and he sobs out loud, his body wracked with it. A cool, wet drizzle, more of Greg’s fingers, invading, claiming, and John exhales any tension left in his body, opens for him, waiting for him, wanting to be fucked, wanting to be used, wanting Greg to get off, growling, hurting him, putting him in his place, which is here, on his knees, with his face on the floor.

In the end, what swirls and nudges and thrusts its way inside him is not Greg’s cock. It is cold, and so stiff, and once it is seated, it is heavy, and presses on the sweet spot, and John’s thighs begin to shake. He is claimed. He’s being saved for later, plugged up and held open. He needs to come more than he needs to breathe. Greg stands, and John hears the metallic thud and clank as he retrieves his belt from where he left it on the floor earlier, as he fixed John into the sling, then the soft smack of leather on leather as Greg doubles it in his fist. Though he knows it is futile, will only earn him more punishment, more time on the floor bruising his knees, John whimpers, and whispers, “Please. . . _Please_.”

The belt comes thudding down on his back in time with each of Greg’s words, his voice gruff and gorgeous, John would give him anything, anything to please him, this man, this perfect man, this. . .

“I.

Said.

You.

Must.

 _Wait_.”

 

The second time someone appeared in the open door, John had been straddling Greg’s lap, facing away, his back arched, while Greg occasionally stroked his bound-up prick, pinching and tugging his foreskin, swiping fingerfuls of oozing fluid from the slit, manhandling John’s bollocks. With fingertips and knuckles, Greg pincer-gripped the skin of John’s chest, digging his nails in and twisting, and then pinched his nipples one by one, clamping down cruelly so that John squirmed and shouted his pain. Greg sank his teeth into the back of John’s shoulder, and then his tricep, bit down hard, then leaned back and commanded, “Tell her how that feels.”

The woman had stepped inside the room a bit, was watching with an measuring eye. John looked at her feet, clad in stiletto-heeled boots, shiny, blue-black.

“Hurts,” John gasped.

“And?” Greg prompted, tucking his finger and thumb between the barbell-ends of John’s nipple piercing and drawing it forward, sending a shock of lightning straight down to John’s cock.

“I like it,” John panted. “I love it.”

“Course you do,” the woman said sweetly, and John caught a glimpse of her above the boots: petite and pleasantly plump, wearing a blue vinyl strip of a mini-skirt and a shiny red corset-top emblazoned with gold stars. Her face was heart-shaped, her features small—red-lipped, eyelashes thicker than could possibly be natural—and her dark hair fell to her shoulders in thick waves. Greg gave John a shove from behind.

“Kneel,” he ordered. To the woman he said, “Where’s the golden lasso?” and the casual joke in his tone was a clear indication his focus had once more shifted away from John. Setting himself on his knees, John let his eyes close. The tattoos of fresh bruises throbbed hot, reminders of what he was meant for.

“So I guess it’s a passable outfit then, if you recognize it,” she replied. “My friend’s enjoying it, at any rate.”

Greg came and stood beside John, reached for his collar and jerked him upright. “Open your mouth,” he ordered, his voice gruff and commanding, and John did as he was told. Thick fingers coated with a sweet-salty gel thrust into John’s mouth, and he knew he was meant to lick them clean, and so he did. Greg offered his fingers three more times, feeding John the concoction to rehydrate him and keep his energy up, but didn’t acknowledge him again, instead returned to his chat.

“So where’s your friend now?” Greg asked, jokily suspicious.

“Upside-down on the cross for a bit with my thong stuffed in his mouth.”

Greg huffed a little laugh even as he thrust his fingers too far into John’s mouth and made him gag, then withdrew his hand and slapped John’s cheek before forcing his fingers in again.

“I’ve always admired your creativity, Didi,” he chuckled.

“And I admire your firm hand, G,” she replied. “We should play sometime. I could leave _you_ upside down on the cross for a bit while I go looking in open doors for someone to lend a girl a hand.” There was winky playfulness in her tone.

“I don’t play that way, I’m afraid,” Greg replied, and gave John a smack on the jaw to indicate he was finished feeding him. John sat back on his heels, waited. “But if I ever change my mind, yours will be the first pair of boots I lick. Promise.”

“Bet you say that to all the girls,” she teased.

Greg set a dog dish of water down beside John and gave the back of his head a downward push. John bent down and began to drink, slurping and sloppy, humiliated, but he knew to refuse would mean more pain, more delay. He did his best to please; he’d show their visitor how commanding Greg was, by his obedience.

“So you’re looking for a bit of help with something?” Greg prompted, returning to her earlier comment.

“Your boy’s got a face a girl can’t help but notice. That strong jaw. And my one isn’t allowed to worship me until he’s done his punishment.”

“You want to borrow him?”

“If you don’t mind. . .” The Domme settled herself on the overstuffed chair, legs crossed at the ankle. She adjusted her corset-top and leaned back.

Greg’s two thick fingers slipped into John’s collar and began to tug; John went along, crawling, until he was on his knees at the woman’s feet. Greg dropped to one knee beside him, leaned close to speak into his ear.

“Lick her boot,” Greg said. “Suck the heel, let me see.”

The Domme let out a pretty, surprised sound as John bent and affixed an open-mouthed kiss on the toe of her boot, closing his lips around the point as he drew away, then ducked further and cranked his neck around, going after the pencil-slim heel. She flexed her ankle to accommodate him, and John let the heel of the boot slide over his tongue, as deep as he could get it into his mouth, slid up and back a few times, until he felt Greg’s hand on his shoulder.

As John moved away, the Domme uncrossed her ankles, opened her legs, and raised her skirt to reveal her pussy with its drift of dark hair and swollen, glistening pink lips. John’s breath caught.

“Go on and lick her,” Greg murmured, close beside John’s ear. “I’m giving you to her; she’s your Mistress. Show her what a greedy slut you are. Go on, then. You dirty whore—getting passed around.”

John licked his lips and leaned in, laying an appropriately worshipful kiss on the smooth inner thigh. She ruffled long-nailed fingers through his hair, then gently guided him closer. John could smell her salty-sweet arousal and he hummed a bit as his tonguetip skimmed her inner lips, tentative first touches and flicks giving way to longer, deeper strokes of his tongue, tasting her, learning her different textures, gratified when her hips began a soft, insistent  roll. Greg’s slicked-up hand fondled John’s prick and balls possessively, driving John mad, distracting him, making him groan and hum into the Domme’s pussy as he finally settled in to lap at her clit, tangy and swollen, and her thighs became restless, squeezing against John’s cheeks now and then, one of her boot-clad ankles resting on his shoulder, scraping over the bite marks Greg had left there. She began to let out steady, whining moans in time with the motion of her hips, the lapping of John’s tongue against her.

John was tormented; Greg was jerking him, stroking him, bringing John to the precipice once more with no hope that he would let John tumble over it. John directed his focus to the task of worshipping his temporary Mistress; she tasted divine and he wanted to make her come. His prick throbbed and dripped, and he let out his own whining sounds against her delicious lips.

“Oh, fuck!” she gasped, “G, he’s gunna make me. . .” a warning; John was Greg’s plaything, and out of respect for his boundaries, she wouldn’t take more than Greg was willing for John to give.

“Go on, then,” Greg said to her, in his more casual voice, though it was ragged with arousal—more akin to his usual bedroom voice—not the voice he used to call John a slut or demand he present his arse for the crop. “Enjoy him, by all means,” Greg finished, and the woman let out a relieved-sounding, giggly sigh, and shifted her hips forward, spread her fingers over the back of John’s head and gently urged him closer. “He doesn’t deserve a Mistress like you,” Greg said, his voice edged with menace, reminding John he was nothing but a slut, a fuck-toy Greg could lend out or keep to himself. Whatever Greg wanted, John was there to give. And what Greg wanted him to give was an orgasm to this woman, while Greg teased him relentlessly with a wank that would never be consummated. John dipped down to run his tongue over her opening, even down to tickle her arsehole, then licked and kissed his way back up to her clit and settled in with steady, pressing circles of his tonguetip. She responded as he’d hoped, clutching his neck, clearly wanting to squeeze her thighs around him, and her voice went higher and higher, and Greg went on dragging the ring of his fingers down John’s length—it was agonizing—and his voice was harsh, but low, only meant for John though obviously she would hear.

“Look what a greedy, slutty boy you are. I can give you to anyone that walks in that door. You’d eat any pussy, lick any arse, suck any prick I put in front of you. What if I let her fuck you? What if I let her plug you, or strap on a huge cock and fuck you while you suck my prick? You like to get pegged, you dirty whore? I know you do. Worship her, she’s your Mistress. She’s your goddess, make her come.”

Greg’s hand around John’s prick was relentless, and John made a sound of distress even as the woman let out a long, desperate moan and her thighs quivered beside John’s face. He licked her through it, fell back to gentle, fluttering touches with his tongue as she subsided, and drew away when she touched his forehead, dismissing him. Greg gave him a few more slippery pulls, and John sank back to sit on his heels. He listened to the Domme’s breath as it quieted. He whimpered when Greg released him; he felt half mad with his need to come.

Greg kissed him, messy, open-mouthed, licking the taste of the Mistress from John’s lips and chin. John moaned needily and his hips bucked up.

“Thanks for letting me borrow him, G,” the woman said then, and rose to stand, adjusting her skirt, smoothing her hair. “I fucking needed that, I couldn’t concentrate!” There was a giggly, singing quality to her voice. Greg got up off his knee and they exchanged cheek-kisses. “Oh, honey, take pity on him,” she implored sweetly.

“He’s miles to go before he’s through. He’s learning patience,” Greg replied, sounding stern so John knew he was meant to be listening.

The Domme mussed John’s hair, and he leaned into her touch, grateful for a moment’s kindness, and then listened to the click of her stiletto heels receding as she left. He waited for whatever came next.

 

Greg is wielding the belt so that John feels its heft, thudding down on his back in a slow, steady drum beat. It hurts, certainly, but not like being whipped would hurt, and any marks it leaves will be fleeting—a flush of red as blood rushes up beneath John’s skin, making him shiver. Every tremour of his body makes him instantly, maddeningly aware of the thick metal plug in his arse. He rocks his forehead against the hard, rubberised floor (easy to hose down, black, bearing that oft-fetishised aroma of vinyl). The whipping of his backside with the rawhide cane was his punishment for displays of impatience; the belt is to punish him only because he likes to be punished, and because his man likes to punish him. Likes to hurt him. The plug rubs him inside, makes him suck air and writhe.

The blows suddenly cease; the belt hits the floor somewhere off to his left. Greg takes a few steps around him, and stops; John hears him plant each booted foot. John’s chest is heaving as his breath gusts. He is used up, exhausted, beaten and bitten and bruised everywhere, and he has been brought from half-aroused to painfully aroused again and again so that his bollocks ache and his prick is hot and steadily dripping his desire. He knows he is being watched, sized up, appraised. He stills his hips and arcs his back, rests his forehead on his prayerful hands. He waits.

In the stillness that follows, he can hear his heart beat, and his breath, and thinks he can hear Greg’s as well, and behind his closed eyes there is a soothing brightness. He is so far down and every flicker of pain in the carefully arranged-and-held frame of his body reminds him he is free from decision, free from responsibility, given over, surrendered, owned. He waits.

Greg’s footfalls, heavy, decisive, moving away. John resigns himself to his fate. Greg may leave him here for an hour, or all night. Greg may not let him come tonight, might throw him his clothes and order him to dress, calling him by his name to drag him back up to the world, while he smokes the night’s last cigarette, checking the cricket scores on his phone while John buttons up his shirt. His suffering may not end in sweet relief, but only in further frustration, eventual exhaustion. Whatever Greg wants, whatever he decides, whatever he asks, John will obey. He waits.

The door clicks shut.

Greg returns, and reaches for John—not his collar, just his arm—and his voice is very different when he says, “You are just fucking _gorgeous_.” He guides John up to his knees again, guides but does not shove or drag him the few yards to the overstuffed chair, and indicates that John should lean forward over its seat. John is moaning, whining, as every movement of his body nudges the plug inside him, and he knows he should settle down but he cannot stop himself. He is delirious with need, with pleasure, pain, wanting his man to fuck him hard, slap him, scratch him, growl and shout as he unloads inside him, or across his skin, or into his mouth. Whatever he wants, John is his to use.

The plug is withdrawn, making John’s gut clench, and Greg persuades with strong hands, settling John back in the chair with his knees pulled up beside his chest. John entwines his fingers behind his neck without being told, because he wants to behave, wants to please, wants to look appetizing in his surrender. Greg, standing close, watching him, looking him over with intensity, lifts his t-shirt over his head and drops it aside. He unfastens the column of buttons on the fly of his jeans and lets them fall, wraps his hand around his heavy prick, sighing pleasure as he slicks it, then shuffle-steps closer, and sinks down with his hands against the chair’s arm and back. “Beautiful, pet,” he says quietly, and John feels his eyes and nose prickle with gratitude for Greg’s praise. “Here,” Greg says, and persuades John’s ankles up onto his strong, broad shoulders, and he reaches between them, feels his way, slips the head of his cock past the ring of softened muscle so they both suck air. Greg keeps still. John waits.

Biting his lips to keep from begging out loud, John keeps his eyes cast down as he should, as is expected of him. Greg adjusts himself to lean on his elbow, his forearm behind John’s neck. “Look here, dirty boy,” Greg croons, and John’s eyes fill, so that when he looks for Greg’s eyes, all he sees is a crystalline shimmer, until he blinks, and the tears spill and run. Greg is gazing at him as if he is a precious, prized possession, and John knows that is exactly what he is, and a sob shudders out of him, shaking his shoulders. His clasped hands slip from behind his neck and even though he hasn’t been invited, he reaches out for his man’s back, feels the comforting, solid strength of him beneath his grasping fingers. At long last Greg begins to move, sliding into him, so achingly slow, so deliciously deep, and John lets out a heavy groan. His bound-up cock aches anew; he is right there, _right there_ , and when his man wants it, John’s very final moment of helplessness is right there waiting for him, just for him, all for him.

Greg’s voice is gravel-dragged, a deep growl. “You’re so _good_. . .Oh, you’re so good. Good boy. Good _boy_.” He fucks slow so John feels every bit of the outward drag, and of the inward thrust, and Greg’s cockhead hits the spot on every pass, up. . .and back, up. . .and back. John sobs and sobs, and Greg stares, and fucks, and groans, “You’re _so_ good. . .so good for me. . .”

He lets John hold him, John’s hand on his arm, his shoulder, his neck, up into the hair at the back of his head, and down again. John whimpers, closes his eyes, bites his lips, feels his man fucking him with his  deliciously thick, wonderfully hard cock (he’s been waiting, too), touching his man’s muscular shoulders, listening to his man’s satisfied groans and his assurances that John has pleased him, is pleasing him still. John weeps with the frustration of wanting to— _needing_ to—come; and with relief that all his waiting must be, _must be_ , nearly done; and with gratitude for Greg’s fierce cruelty, and for his strength, and for his fearlessness; no one else has ever held John down so far, so firmly, for so long. He is everything John has ever needed; he is an absolute _master_.

Greg shoves in deep, and lingers there inside John, pinning him, claiming him. John is owned. Greg shifts his arms, giving himself leverage, changing the angle, and John’s calves slide off his chest and shoulders so that he can wrap his legs around Greg’s back, and damn the punishment that might come from his greediness, John wraps his arms around Greg’s back, holding him hard, pulling himself closer to Greg’s body, against his chest. Greg lets him.

“So beautiful, pet,” Greg assures him, right beside his ear, and John flexes his hips, wanting more of Greg, wanting Greg to fuck him hard, use him, _have_ him. Greg gulps air and makes space, scrabbles with fingers and thumb for the snap on the cockring. He gives a soft command, just a single word: _Come_ , and draws back, rocks in, picking up the pace to suit his own needs, staring intently at John’s tear-streaked face.

John’s been hovering around his peak for ages, limbs tingling, blood rushing hot and itchy in every artery and vein, so when his orgasm is at last unleashed, it expands and spreads, no urgent explosive eruption, only a fast-flowing relief that makes him shudder and shudder, flexing ankles and spreading toes, fingers digging into Greg’s arms and back, neck arching back and back, mouth wide around a moan that goes on forever. His prick pulses floods of cum onto his belly and chest, and John’s body is wracked in time with it, and he melts as the crisis finally subsides.

Meantime, Greg is taking his own pleasure, fucking hard, not as deep, not careful, faster, grunting, breath heaving against John’s neck. John’s legs are weak and fall inelegantly open, his hands slide down from Greg’s back to his waist, then John remembers himself and he wants to arrange his body prettily but cannot insinuate his hands behind his own neck because his man’s mouth is there, biting down on John’s collar, and then on the skin of his throat. His prick is deep inside John when he comes, grunting and panting, open-mouthed against John’s neck, teeth on his collar, tongue on his skin.

Greg drags himself away, up to his feet, and starts to dress. John curls sideways in the big armchair, wanting to sleep, wanting to hold Greg’s cum inside him, wanting Greg to grab him by the collar and drag him to the floor and plant his boot between John’s shoulder blades.

Time passes, enough that John’s breath has settled from harsh panting to shallow, sleepy puff-and-drag. Greg’s voice comes softly: “John.”

No. He doesn’t want to come back. He doesn’t want to be

“ _John_. Sweetheart. Look at me, now. Look here, darling.”

He’s not ready. He wants to stay down. He doesn’t look.

Greg’s hands on him persuade him to move, unfurl, stretch his legs and raise his head. John’s eyes come lazily open and he sees Greg’s face, the set of his jaw much softer, all the cruelty gone from his gaze.

“That was perfect, John. You’re so good. I want to get you home and put you in bed, now, all right? Time for us to go home.” He is holding John’s hands in his, working his thumbs into John’s palms. “ _John_.” John shakes his head; he’s not ready. “Clothes or pyjamas?” Greg asks, his hands squeezing and circling John’s wrists, to rouse him, remind him of his body.

John slithers down from the chair, onto his knees on the floor. He bows his head with an aim to open his mouth against the toe of Greg’s boot, but Greg won’t let him, gets one hand around John’s arm and one on his back near his waist and urges him up to his feet. He gathers John to his bare chest, holding him tight and close around his back, and John sighs deeply into the embrace. “You’ve done so well. Done everything I asked.” Greg kisses his hair, rocks him gently in his arms. “You’re exhausted; I want to get you home, darling. Now, do you want your clothes, or the pyjamas I brought?”

John is struggling against it, but feels himself drifting up. Greg gives him choices, and though he likes neither, still he must choose.

“Pyjamas, please.”

John is satisfied to sit on the slipcovered chair while he waits for Greg to retrieve soft clothes from inside his duffel, and he knows he is nearly himself again when the thought occurs to him that whatever they pay someone to launder the covers on the furniture in these rooms, it’s not nearly enough. His arse is tender, welted from the cane, and he knows it will be degrees of magnitude worse once his rush of happy brain chemicals settles down. Greg takes a knee in front of him, and guides one ankle, then the other, into the legs of cotton pyjama bottoms, starts to slide them up John’s legs. Once John has shifted and lifted and settled them around his waist, and Greg has slipped one of his own t-shirts over John’s head and fed his arms through the sleeves, John looks into Greg’s face—softly smiling, his expression so kind and loving—and his chin quivers and more tears sting his eyes.

“Oh, John. Oh, sweetheart,” Greg croons, and John collapses forward until they are embracing, though not comfortably, so after a moment Greg guides them both to their feet and bear hugs him again. He is as comforting in the aftermath as he is dominating in the heart of the thing. His man is perfect in every way. “You did wonderfully well,” Greg tells him, and kisses the top edge of his ear. “I’m so pleased. I know that was difficult for you; you were very, very good.”

John has been biting back on the words most of the night, and although he knows it’s a discussion they must have when they are both on even ground, he worries he may never say the things he’s feeling if he doesn’t say them in the immediate moment, in Greg’s arms, still partway down, still pliant and uninhibited. It’s like drunkenness, he thinks, and blurts, “I want you to be my man,” then tries to clarify, “My master,” and he feels like the words don’t do justice to his meaning so he repeats, “My man.” Finally, he limps to an unsatisfactory finish with, “. . .Sir.”

Greg leans away from him, catching John’s eye. John frowns hard and looks away; what he has managed to say is nothing at all like what he feels, which is that he wants to finally, once and for all, put into words what is already—he thinks— _hopes_ —understood. That he belongs to Greg; that he is giving himself to Greg utterly, completely, without reservation.

The tone of Greg’s voice as he replies, “And I want you to be my man, as well. I mean. . . _mine_ ,” tells John that he has—somehow, by some miracle—managed to put his intention across. John feels such relief, his shoulders sag and his eyes close, and he goes on weeping, but now it feels different. Better. Greg takes John’s face in his hands and kisses his cheeks and eyelashes, his falling tears. “Hey,” he says softly, and his hands go to the back of John’s collar, fingers beginning to pick at the buckle, but very slowly, very gently. “Look here, sweetheart.” John looks. “Lots to process, eh?” Greg smiles a bit and John returns it. “We’ll talk about it more—talk it all through. Tomorrow.”

Greg has got the collar unfastened but doesn’t remove it right away, just holds it in place, lingering. John is grateful for the final few breaths he takes as Greg’s pet, even as Greg is calling John his _darling_ , his _sweetheart_ , like he does, great soft thing that he is. John is still not fully back to himself, but he is ready for the collar to come off; to be taken home and bathed and his wounds attended to; to be given simple choices of chips or pizza, tea in the lounge or in bed, the telly on or Greg reading to him. He is ready to wake up tomorrow and talk it all out as they laze together in bed, then trade sections of the Sunday papers. One will get the shopping while the other tidies, then they’ll cook together, eat together, all the everyday things they do together when they are only themselves. Together. John nods a bit to let Greg know he’s ready.

He waits.

 


End file.
